Pokemon: Orphan Orange
by Stoateyez
Summary: Ash Ketchum is an orphan. If his life isn't already bad enough, it's about to get worse. After learning that a law requires him to become a Pokemon trainer, our favorite hero finds himself struggling to survive. Can Ash earn enough badges to retire, or will he die trying? Rated M for blood, gore, and language. AAML. Only contains first 251 Pokemon.
1. Intro

**So this is one of the darkest fics that I've written in a while. Heavily inspired by Pokémon 0. Reviews and follows are welcome and appreciated!**

* * *

**Intro: Interview With Lance**

"...the four regions have always been nation states promoting the right to life. This means that abortion has effectively been outlawed within our national borders," explained Lance. "This also means that there are no birth control pills, or condoms if you will."

The commentator nodded. "Right...now this was set into place by the Pokemon League in the early 1950s. At the time, did the Pokemon League predict that there would be so many orphans?"

The leader of the Pokemon League shifted uncomfortably before carefully speaking. "No, of course not. But that is why the state has provided orphanages in every town, where each child is taken care of and looked after if they were abandoned."

"But the state only takes care of the child until age fifteen, correct? If those children can't find a job at that age, which they likely won't, then they have no other option but to either become a trainer or a homeless person. Correct me if I'm wrong," said the commentator, his voice carrying a more serious tone.

Lance shifted again. "Well, the answer to your question is correct. Obviously, the state can't support a child past fifteen years old – there are simply too many, and our fragile economic system would become trashed. Training employs these children early on and eases the taxes on our regular citizens. This is why the Orphan Act was passed."

"Well, how would you address the criticisms of the Orphan Act? A lot of people, quite a few trainers themselves, argue that the legislation was passed so that Pokemon training stays in existence. It's no secret that trainers stimulate the economy. They claim that the act was passed to force people to become trainers – to keep the nation out of debt and in an economic boom."

Lance frowned visibly, as though the interview had taken a wrong turn. "Yes, the Pokemon industry generated over 750 billion dollars in the last year. But that is not why Pokemon training exists. It is a traditional sport ingrained within our founding constitutions, a right guaranteed to the people."

"But most trainers are not where they are by choice. Their rights were violated when they were forced out of the system," noted the commentator.

Lance stood up in a blur. "Listen, this interview is over, _sir_. This is an ambush on the reputation of the Pokemon League, and an insult to my organization. Everyone has a choice...those kids who are trainers are on the road because they couldn't pay a debt! That debt is paid when they acquire five badges!"

"But hardly anyone can pay for fifteen years of rent at the age of fifteen!" countered the commentator, standing up as well. He knew that the network affiliates would fire him for pressing such an important figure this hard on national television, but he no longer cared. "How much do you get paid, Mr. Dragonstone?"

Lance snorted wryly. "I choose to keep my income private, thank you very much. Besides, a champion makes more than I do after winning a Pokemon League tournament. We have made multimillionaires out of every Champion."

"And training has resulted in the deaths of plenty more."

"Training is dangerous! It comes with the choice of the profession – "

The commentator cut in again quickly. "A profession which is often not voluntary. These children are walking thousands of miles unsupervised, possessing Pokemon that can level whole villages. It seems like a violation of constitutional rights!"

Lance was turning out of the camera angle now. "This interview is over. I have no further comment. If you wish to attack the Pokemon League verbally, mail this to the Indigo Plateau. I bid you good day."


	2. Chapter 1

_"They say that every trainer will see his or her fair share of dead bodies over their career. I can easily remember my first one. It was a girl not much older than me. She had been raped, shot in the head, and then thrown into a shallow ditch on the side of the route that I happened to be traveling on. It shook me up for a little while, but after the second or third badge, I was pretty used to seeing corpses." – Jack Marquette, 213th Kanto League Champion, 1999._

**Chapter One: A Forced Beginning  
**

I was numb. I couldn't remember when the feeling started. Had it been yesterday afternoon, when they gave me the unfortunate news? Perhaps it was this morning, when I awoke to discover that my situation was not simply a bad dream – no, a nightmare even. This was reality. I could feel the shivering in my legs, spreading upwards to create a hollow pit within the depths of my stomach. What had I done to deserve this?

_It doesn't matter, does it? You can't get out of it now._ The voice in my head was right. I could not avoid such a damning fate.

It was a beautiful morning, even by midsummer standards. I could see the sun creeping into the sky above Silver Pass in the east, painting the clouds with curious hues of pink and gold. Somewhere far off, I could hear the errant caw of a Dodrio as its three beaks announced a new dawn. There were still beads of refreshing dew on the tall grass, and even the spiderwebs cast by an assortment of insect Pokemon were left still and intact. It was a peaceful scene.

And then, there was me, violating nature's perfect picture.

For a fifteen year old boy, I looked like shit. I hadn't had much time to prepare for my departure, mainly due to the little warning I received. When the matron told me that I had exactly twenty-four hours before I would legally be considered an adult, I had obviously panicked. And yes, you heard me right. At fifteen years old, I was considered a legal adult. To add icing to the cake, I was expelled from the orphanage I had spent the last decade and a half residing in, blissfully ignorant of how the world worked. My experience was similar to someone pouring icy water on my head while I was asleep – I had finally woken up, and to a grisly situation.

I never asked to become a Pokemon trainer, nor did I volunteer. I never even wanted to associate with Pokemon, let alone train the powerful beasts to battle as a means of survival. But because of my status within society, I was forced to become a Pokemon trainer.

I was born in 1985, in a small village in Kanto known as _Pallet Town_. According to the official records that the matron allowed me to see, I was born as Ash Ketchum, to a man named named Red Ketchum, and a woman named Delia Ketchum. I was told that they were hooked on very addictive drugs, and that one day, they abandoned me at the local orphanage. I was five when they deserted me, and seven when the Pallet Town orphanage transferred me to New Bark Town, in the Johto region. I'm still not sure whether I believe the official records about my parents – my memories of my mother do not ever include her slamming heroin or snorting cocaine. Unfortunately, I can't remember my father.

I grew up in a settlement known as New Bark Town. It was a quaint, small place with a solid foundation on the windmill and farming business. The village itself was only home to about a thousand people, although it was still marked on the national map due to the location of its renowned Pokemon research laboratory. To put it simply, there were more dirt roads than paved roads, and most of the houses were nearly like cabins. I was raised in the local orphanage with about twenty-five other orphans, a welcome change from the cramped conditions in the Pallet Town state home. We liked to think of ourselves as a happy family, despite the fact that we were all different ages. It was always a special event when one of us were adopted – Mrs. Elm, who ran the facility, would always bake a cake in celebration. She was the matron, the one who looked after us. Sure, she received a paycheck for raising us, but she managed to treat us like her own children. Despite the fact that we were orphans, most of us had a relatively easy life. We attended school like any other kids, although the other children always had newer clothes and the newest gadgets. Because we were all young kids at the time, the differences were blissfully overlooked.

As we became older, it was obvious that us orphans were radically different than those with parents. We were even treated differently – not worse, but certainly not the same. Adults around the small town would sometimes give us pitiful looks, as though they knew of a fate that we didn't. Nevertheless, life went on. We orphans still hung out with one another at school, voluntarily segregating ourselves from the other children.

My first experience with Pokemon were somewhat neutral. Sometimes, we would pretend to host mock battles in the yard behind the ancient schoolhouse we held classes in. We used Pokeballs as rocks, yelling commands to our imaginary beasts as though we commanded a full team. I hadn't really noticed at the time, but both the parents and the teachers would shake their heads at us when we engaged in the play fighting. _You go to school so that you do not have to become a trainer. You can grow up to be whatever you want, just make sure you become anything but a Pokemon trainer. _That's what they told the other children when they played the game with us.

They never bothered to scold the orphans, though.

It was a hot, summer afternoon, when I finally learned why.

I was completing the chore of removing weeds from the back garden of the orphanage when Mrs. Elm called me inside, her voice a bit more reserved than usual. She beckoned me into her personal office – a place that most children were only called into after repeated misbehavior.

"Ash, I would like to begin this conversation by noting that you have been one of the most cordial guests that have ever stayed here. You're a good boy, and I truly can't imagine why anyone would want to ever give you away," she said.

I simply nodded, still wary of what this conversation was entailing. "It's been a pleasure Mrs. Elm. You took all of us in like a mother that we never really had."

She smiled and looked away, towards the small window. Outside, I could see one of my friends kicking around a deflated football with a knot of thirteen year old children. "Which is why...I'll be very sad to see you go, Ash."

I felt my heart skip a small beat. _Sad to see me go? What is she talking about?_

"Ma'am?" I inquired.

She was crying now, and looking away wasn't helping her at all. Her eyes were red and glistening, misted over like sad orbs of despair. "Ash...today you turned fifteen years old. Obviously, you never bothered to ask when your real birthday was, since we all celebrate everyone's birthday on Thanksgiving here at the orphanage."

"I had no idea," I said.

She grimaced. "I know, honey. That makes this whole process a lot harder for the both of us."

I coughed nervously, my hands sweating profusely. I was gripping the arms of my chair with such a tightness that my knuckles had transitioned from a normal color into a ghostly white. "Ma'am, if you don't mind me asking, what process are we talking about here?"

She was on the verge of a breakdown, now. "With the other kids, this is usually much easier. Most of them want to leave here anyway – you know, the rowdier ones that usually misbehave."

"Mrs. Elm," I stated, my voice rising, "I need to know what is going on right now, because you're really starting to scare me."

She took a breath. "Ash, as this morning, you turned fifteen years old. Because you were an orphan, the state decided to take you in and raise you until you were determined capable of living on your own, using money provided by taxpayers. The Orphan Act states that you have to find a way to repay the state."

I mulled over the words in my head. _Repay the state. _Was she serious? I waited for one of my friends to jump out of the wastebasket in the corner of the room, yelling '_surprise_' as he did so. Such an event never occurred. Instead, I simply sat in the chair with my mouth gaping in disbelief. _Repay the state. What the hell does that even mean? I'm fifteen years old...I can't even get a job, let alone pay for fifteen years of rent._

She seemed to read my mind. "They want you to pay the money back by becoming a Pokemon trainer."

"No," I choked. "There's no way that this is real! Is this even a legitimate law?"

She nodded, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. "Of course it is, dear. Didn't you ever notice the lack of older children here at the orphanage?"

Yes.

Yes, I had noticed it. My infantile brain had failed to comprehend the puzzle, to solve the mystery that had been present my whole life. I hadn't noticed because I didn't care. They had talked about the Orphan Act a few times in what little History classes I took in the fifth and sixth grade, but I hadn't paid attention. Had anyone? We were little kids. The other children obviously didn't worry about the act because it didn't apply to them, and us orphans only cared about horsing around and playing with one another. It was all coming back now. The Orphan Act was a bill passed long before my time, to ease the blow on the common taxpayer. Pokemon trainers stimulated the economy – they spent billions of dollars per year on potions, Pokeballs, and antidotes. But obviously, not many people _wanted_ to become a Pokemon trainer. So to fill the gap, the state passed the Orphan Act, which forced orphans to become Pokemon trainers. The theory upholding the act was founded on the belief that once a trainer earned five badges, they would have spent enough money to pay back the imagined debt – like some indentured servant, really.

And I, Ash Ketchum, was going to be the next servant to fulfill that debt.

The rest of the conversation passed in a confusing haze. Mrs. Elm explained that I was scheduled to report to the research laboratory the following morning, where her husband would issue me a starting Pokemon and several other important items. The tears were streaming down my own face as she stated that all of my belongings that I wished to keep had to be removed as well. I was told that the rest would be sold at a yard sale, destroyed, or simply given to the other children at the orphanage. That night, I packed up what little items did belong to me.

I had shared the room with two roommates, a thirteen year old boy named Joey, and another guy named AJ. Mrs. Elm had told me not to tell anyone where I was going – she said that telling the younger children would cause a panic in the orphanage. Frankly, I wasn't eager to ruin what little childhood they had left either. There were a few questions, to which I answered that a family had adopted me, and that I was moving back to Kanto. The lie couldn't have been farther from the truth. It would be sometime later when I realized why I had never been warned about becoming a trainer – the adults had made sure to steer clear of the topic of our fates. We had always been told that Pokemon training was a fate damned only to those who dropped out of school, a career for lowlifes who had no other options. Now, I realized that I was that lowlife – just a kid with no other options.

They kicked me out at midnight, when everyone else was sleeping. I left most of my things in my room for Joey and AJ to keep. All I had was a knapsack, one change of clothes, and two thin, peanut butter sandwiches that Mrs. Elm hastily slapped together. She gave me a final hug, and then pushed me outside. The slam of the door behind me forced to come to grips with all of the events. In the blink of an eye, I had become homeless.

I walked to the lab in darkness, passing the cabins and storefronts that I had once considered my hometown. Here and there, a soft light would be on in the window. There were people in there, enjoying their families and friends. I was now on the outside, looking in – nothing but a homeless vagrant with an imaginary debt to people I had never encountered. Once I arrived at the lab, I sat down on the steps out front and waited. The adrenaline coursing through my body both prevented sleep, and numbed me. Somehow, though, I managed to doze off.

When I woke up, it was dawn.

.

"...which would mean that the migration pattern of local Pidgey have begun to change dramatically over an elongated course of ten years. Some of my colleagues have managed to install tracking devices on Spearow as well, and I must state that these findings are astounding. Wait...Bill, hold on. There's a kid sitting on my steps. I'll call you later this afternoon, OK? Bye."

That kid was me.

Professor Elm was a middle aged man of maybe forty years old, clad in a pristine, white laboratory coat and round spectacles that completed his scholarly outfit. His receding hairline certainly did not help his appearance, and on top of that, what hair he did have was thinning out near the top. I hadn't seen the man very often throughout my childhood, despite the fact that he was married to my caretaker, and the scowl on his face seemed to express an extreme displeasure at my presence. I rose to my feet and dusted off my jeans.

"Who are you?" he demanded, shoving the large cellphone he had been talking on into his beige slacks.

"Ash, sir. Ash Ketchum." I said, extending a hand.

He waved the friendly gesture aside and adjusted his briefcase. "My wife told me about you. You had high marks in school, right?"

I nodded. "Yes sir."

"Well, that won't do you much good as a trainer," he grunted, edging past me. He quickly scaled the steps and slid a key-card at the entrance of the laboratory. "Come inside. We need to get this done quickly. I have to write an important thesis by ten o'clock, and a Pokemon League official is swinging by around noon for lunch."

The doors of the laboratory slid open, hissing electronically as the did so. I followed the professor as closely as I could. The one-room laboratory was generally a mess. Several hardcover books had been stacked in a manner of ways, all of which were perched on sagging, wooden desks. Old printout papers, complex blueprints, and at least a pallet worth of lined paper lay draped over every other inhabitable surface, giving me the impression of a library rather than a research lab.

"Uh, find a seat," said Elm, gesturing vaguely towards a plush, burgundy chair half-buried beneath a stack of musty books. "Feel free to move those if you can. Now, where did I put that goddamn digital camera?"

I quickly picked up the stack of heavy books and placed them on the dusty carpet, nearly crushing the remains of a disassembled Pokeball. '_Does he live here?' _I thought, examining the room further. There were remains of candy wrappers and empty cans of energy drinks in three separate wastebaskets, all of which were overflowing to the point of disgust.

"Ah, here we go!" he exclaimed, knocking over an old copy of _Pokemon Review 1993 _and holding up a small, silver camera. He turned towards me. "Flash or no flash?"

I stuttered. "S-sorry?"

"Do you want flash on your goddamned Identification Card or not, kid?" he snapped, already booting up a decrepit computer terminal. "Now, I would recommend flash myself. If they ever find your body or something, the first thing that they check for is an ID Card."

I visibly recoiled at his impatient outburst. "I, um, I guess I'll take flash, then."

He grunted something intelligible and told me to sit up straighter. There was no warning as the camera whined to life, spewing a burst of white light throughout the room. Elm rushed over to the computer terminal, attached the device via a USB cord, and typed out a few commands. Seconds later, I heard a printer start somewhere beneath another pile of books.

Elm looked at me again. "OK. Have you ever used a Pokeball before?"

I shook my head, earning another round of cursing grunts.

"You know what?" he asked aloud, more to himself than anyone. "They keep sending me these kids that don't know shit about Pokemon. These are supposed to be the next people running the Pokemon League? Good luck to that."

I said nothing. I wanted to make myself sink as far back into the chair as I could, to escape somewhere...anywhere but there.

"OK," he said to me, pulling a small, red and white sphere out of his coat pocket and holding it out. "Here. Don't press any buttons until I tell you to."

I nodded and took the Pokeball. It was the first time that I had ever held one. Upon closer inspection, the red tint painting the top of the summoning device proved to be semi-translucent, allowing me to see the holographic image of a small, mouse Pokemon.

"Tap that button in rapid succession, but only twice," commanded Elm.

I followed his orders, tapping the raised, silver button in the middle, two times. The Pokeball shrunk as though it were not a solid item, minimizing into a ball not much larger than a ping-pong ball. I nearly dropped the device in surprise.

"Do it again," he ordered.

This time, the ball regained its baseball size form.

"OK. Follow my next instructions closely. Pokeballs have heat sensitive paint that cover the metal skin. The Pokemon is released when blood rushes to your fingertips, _and _the button is pressed – hence the throwing motion that most trainers have used over the years. If you press the button on an empty Pokeball, it will return the Pokemon you called out. If you throw an empty Pokeball and press the button at the same time, then it'll go into capture mode. You got it?"

"S-sure."

Elm sighed. "Good. There's already a Pokemon in there. It should be tame...one of the local Pokemon Rangers brought it in the other day. Make sure you don't activate the ball until you're outside. The last thing I need is my lab turning into an electric fireball. Let's get your ID and your Pokedex. Blue, pink, or red?"

"I'll take red," I muttered, stowing the Pokeball in my pocket. _An electric fireball?_ _Is the Pokemon within really that dangerous?_

Elm didn't look open to questions, so I didn't ask. He knocked over another pile of books and accessed the printer, taking a plastic ID card from the tray. The professor reached behind a stack of lined paper to produce a red device.

"Listen again, OK?" he asked, holding up the small handheld. "This is a Pokedex. It's an encyclopedia that captures the image of a Pokemon and relays official data from the Pokemon League servers. It has a solar bar for sustained power, like a calculator. There's a national map in here, a low quality camera, and a built in radio for AM stations. There's other stuff too, like a contact list and petty things like a calculating function. If you hook it up to a computer, you can even download new software. The Pokedex won't work unless your ID card is slid into the bottom, like a memory card."

"OK," was all I said. I was feeling numb again.

"You need to get your tattoo as well."

"What?" I uttered.

"Sorry, kid, it's federal law for all trainers to have a tattoo. Don't worry, it's just for identification purposes. It's so they know who's a trainer. Put your hand on the desk next to that computer."

I paused. "No."

"Give me your fucking hand before I call the Rangers!" he snapped. "I said that I don't have time for this shit! I mean it."

I paused again. "OK."

I put my hand over the mouse-pad. Elm read the numbers below an image of my ID card on the screen before pulling out a stamping tool. I noted the fact that my picture looked similar to a horrible mugshot. I wasn't smiling, and the high light saturation nearly made me look gaunt. He turned a few dials on the side and then pressed it against the back of my right hand.

"This is going to hurt," he warned.

I opened my mouth to protest, but quickly clenched my jaw shut as he slammed the tool against my hand. It did hurt – like a million bee stings over and over again, in the same area. The code, #0554205 was inked in black across an area that was rapidly turning red. I was beginning more and more to see this process as an execution, rather than an induction.

"OK kid. No further questions?"

"W-well...um...no."

He was already escorting me to the door.

"Good. You seem sorta sharp, so you might actually get a few badges. Remember, if you get five badges, you're free to quit," he noted. "Just make sure you stick to the routes, and try not to talk to strangers."

"OK." We were on the doorstep again, and I was shielding my eyes. I could see the dirt path shimmering in the heat. It was going to be another scorcher.

Elm seemed to remember something. "Shit! Take this. It's your start-up fund that the state gives every trainer."

He handed me a thick, manila envelope. "It's two hundred dollars, in twenties."

"Thanks," I managed. My hand still throbbed in pain. I examined the numbers again. #0554205. I had become a statistic in a game much larger than I could even begin to understand.

Elm looked at me for a second. "Listen kid, I know what you're going through."

"Really?" I asked, a wry noise between a cough and a dry sob exiting my throat.

He showed me his left hand, which I hadn't noticed. #5032912. A trainer, like me.

"I got my five badges in Sinnoh and came here to start a new life. If you listened to anything I said today, then heed my next warnings. Like I said, don't talk to strangers. Don't trust anyone. Don't go off of the beaten path. If you don't want to battle, then avoid eye contact. If you don't want to make eye contact, then buy some goddamn sunglasses. Head west from here, and don't look back."

"OK," I said again. I had nothing left to say. I simply nodded and began walking down the steps and onto the dirt path.

"Hey, kid!" he said, a little louder this time.

"Yeah?" I asked.

Elm paused again. "When you see a dead body, don't panic. Just leave the area as soon as possible."

Not _if_ I see a dead body_, _but_ when_. It was a guarantee, it seemed.

"OK. Tell Mrs. Elm thank you," I said.

He grunted and watched me leave.

I turned west. It was going to be another burner of a day. Most of the dew from earlier in the morning was already evaporating. When I looked back, Elm was already retreating into the coolness of the laboratory again. The walk out of town was mainly uneventful. A few people wished me good morning. One lady saw my tattoo and wished me good luck. Another man saw it and averted his gaze.

Once I reached the outskirts of town, I realized that I would need it. The route itself was a dirt river, reaching and snaking between the trees and bushes far into the distance. Beyond that, I could see the plains and the hills, and a few, puffy clouds. The horizon awaited me.

Voluntary or not, I had become a Pokemon trainer.


	3. Chapter 2

_"The nights are the worst. You have never seen darkness until you are far from home, tucked deep into the wilderness. There are creatures out there that will tear you limb from limb. Under the cover of night, other people are willing to commit crimes worse than murder. Stay close to your fire, and remain cautious. Any breath could be your last."_ \- Billy Perez, former Pokemon Trainer, 1998

**Chapter Two: A Helping Hand**

By midday, the heat was nearly unbearable. The fiery sun had begun emitting ferocious rays that beat against my skin, drawing beads of sweat from beneath my shirt collar. A few hours into the walk, my neck was burned and itching from the streaks of salt left by the warm condensation. I remembered Professor Elm muttering something about sunglasses and hats as I squinted against the horizon, watching shimmering waves rise from the dusty path. I silently cursed myself for not being more prepared. I cursed again as I realized that society had already dictated my demise. I was still in shock, somewhat. My mind was just beginning to grasp that my situation wasn't just some twisted nightmare, but instead some unfortunate stroke of luck. As if to remind me of my fate, the fresh tattoo on my left hand throbbed yet again, causing me to grimace in pain.

It seemed as though travel would be the least of my problems; Route 29, so far, had been quite easy to navigate. The old trading road had long fallen into a state of disuse, although years of foot traffic from teenagers like me had beaten the beige colored dirt into a somewhat level path. The surroundings had changed very little over the course of a few hours too - the landscape of light trees shifted into one of sparse saplings, and then just high hedges and low shrubs. Green meadows and golden fields waved in the heat, their wilting corn crops and dried wheat grasping sadly for the cloudless sky. On more than one occassion, I saw hired field hands digging through the turf, their wide-brimmed straw hats shaking with dissaproval as I walked by.

The dry fields gave way to more tidy and organized plots, and old wooden fences seperated the parth from the surrounding farmland. Now, there were rundown plantations and ancient farmhouses crooked up a few hundred feet from the road every so often. With muted relief, I noted a shallow drainage ditch on the right side of the road that had long overgrown with thorny weeds and brambles. If I came upon another Trainer, that irrigation rut would be the first place that I ran to for cover.

My heart galloped nervously at the prospect of a battle. I still had yet to actually open the ball that the Professor had given me. Something deep within me believed that actually confronting the creature would be succumbing to my fate. Yet another part of me argued that this animal would be my best friend, protecting me in every respect. My stomach growled loudly, promptly ending the internal argument. I veered off of the path a bit, taking cover in the shade of a twisted willow tree. Further down the road, I could see another small plantation perched in the afternoon haze. A moment of peace passed as I sat down in a patch of long grass and consumed the thin, peanut butter sandwiches that Mrs. Elm had packed me. The heat seemed to have reached its peak, and a nice breeze had begun. I decided to wait until the heat cooled down, enjoying the farmland view as late noon transitioned into early evening, trying in vain to ignore my situation.

A somewhat saitiated appetite helped me to think more clearly, and my logical side was once again sparked. I hadn't seen any wild Pokemon yet, aside from the occasional flock of Pidgey, or the ever elusive Rattata scurrying through the fields. Once or twice, I saw a Caterpie or Weedle attacking an overwhelmed crop of wheat stalks to devour the seeds. But none of them had really noticed me, and if they did, they didn't seem to view me as a threat. But what would have happened if one of them had turned around and decided to attack me? I was defenseless until I claimed what was in the ball as my own.

_So just open the damned ball, and get it over with._

I felt cotton in my mouth, mixing wildly with a surge of adrenaline. Almost against my will, I found my hand reaching into my pocket and withdrawing the small, translucent spehre again. The experience reminded me sourly of when I had somehow opened Mr. Elm's gun safe at the orphanage when I was twelve years old, fascinated at the sight of seeing a handgun in person. At the time, the small Glock 19 hadn't been too heavy, but the deadly weapon had carried a confident weight with it - one that felt capable of murdering someone. In a way, the Pokeball felt very similar. My shaky hand extended a nervous thumb, depressing the small button that brought the two halves of the ball together. There was a dull electric noise, and the sphere suddenly expanded into my hand, instantly becoming the size of a softball. I could see through the top of the Pokeball again, its clear metal skin partially revealing the minimized image of the yellow mouse, just like it had in the laboratory.

"Ok," I muttered softly, palming the device gingerly, "Let's do this."

My first toss, to say the least, was an awkward cross between a stone's throw and a baseball pitch. The ball whirred open as it bounced in the grass, its shell splitting open and unleashing a blinding wave of raw energy. In a matter of seconds, the white had matter morphed and shifted into a small shape. I watched nervously as a small, yellow furred mouse creature unfurled from a tight ball, its beady eyes surveying its surroundings. I noted with relief that the creature lacked large claws, although the red sacs on its cheeks and its jagged tail did not necessarily look friendly.

I whipped out the Pokedex before the creature gathered its bearings, jamming my identification card into the slot reader and selecting the SCAN option.

"_Pikachu_," read the Pokedex, its metallic voice nearly struggling with the prounciation. _"Pikachu is the evolved form of the baby Pokemon, Pichu_. _Known for their ferocious electric attacks, these fiesty rodents can often be found eating raw electricity wire in urban areas. The shape of its tail helps to regulate and aim the hundreds of thousands of volts that course through its cheeks, while the brown stripes adorning its back control the amperage. At higher levels, many Pikachu can launch attacks so powerful that severe burns, muscle contraction, and even internal combustion can occur."_

Internal combustion did not sound pleasant, I realized, as the Pokedex finished its tirade. I quickly shoved the device in my back pocket, surpressing a gulp. The rat saw me and glared.

"Pika!"

I swallowed nervously. "H-hey bud."

The angry rat hissed and inched towards me, every yellow hair on its body standing straight with electricity.

"F-fuck," I muttered, backpedaling a bit. The Pokeball was too far away to be retreived now, nestled in the grass behind the rat.

And then suddenly, it attacked. There was a sharp crackle as a bolt of electricity arced from its tail, snapping hard against my legs. The clearing filled with the smell of singed denim as my leg muscles spasmed painfully due to the sudden power surge. I screamed and fell to the ground, paralyzed from the waist down. I felt raw instinct take over, as well as an ebb of definite panic and adrenaline. As the Pikachu reared towards me, gnashing its sharp teeth, I realized that this would be how I died.

Perhaps the Pokemon Rangers would find my body torn to bits by the feral creature, left to bleed out in a patch of weeds not far from the main road. Or maybe the Rattatta and Pidgey would pick my carcass clean of any flesh, leaving nothing but a hollowed out skull and an identification card. The saddest part, I surmised, is that no one would care – I would simply be another statistic, a trainer killed in the wild.

My thinking was cut short as the Pikachu leaped on top of me, sinking its sharp fangs into my raised elbow. I screamed helplessly as it clenched its maw, leaving a shallow puncture wound and a gash. Yet I still could not move. I was going to perish. The mouse hissed gleefully, opening its mouth to strike at my neck.

My life was ending.

But then a miracle occured.

"Nidoran, use Headbutt!"

And just as abruptly as the electric Pokemon's attack had begun, it was over. There was a sharp crack, followed by a subdued wheeze as the Pikachu was forcefully knocked from my vision, replaced instead by the hulking mass of a light blue, four-legged, dinosaur looking rodent. I rolled left, crying out in pain as the raw wound on my elbow stuck against the weeds. The electric rat seemed unfazed by the new agressor, quickly shaking off the kinetic strike and baring its fangs yet again. The blue dinosaur roared in response, eagerly pawing at the ground.

"Don't move kid. That thing is dangerous!" The said speaker had finally moved into my field of view. A hefty, suntanned man dressed in bulging overalls and a wide-brimmed farmer hat moved into position behind the blue dinosaur, casually looking back and winking at me before turning back to the battle. I noted with relief that the man had a leather holster strapped to his side, the dull shine of black gun metal poking through the flap.

"Alright Nidoran, use Take Down!"

The larger rodent shot forward, throwing its full weight into a ferocious tackle. But the Pikachu was faster, and it quickly side-skirted the attack with inhuman speed. The Nidoran slammed into the ground at breakneck speed, howling in pain as it scrambled onto its stubby legs. The farmer simply snorted, seemingly encouraged at the prosect of a long battle.

"Nidoran, get your act together! Use Bite!"

The blue rodent wheeled forward, gnashing its teeth menacingly. But once again, the Pikachu was much too quick for the slower dinosaur, leaping above the clambering jaws and unleashing a sharp crackle of white-hot electricity. The farmer screamed in surprise as the Nidoran howled in apparent agony, its muscles rendered frozen as hundreds of volts coursed through its body. The blue-green skin on the Nidoran's back instantly blistered into a nasty, bubbled burn.

"Fuck!" cursed the man. He seemed rooted to the spot, his face a mix of both surprise and terror. "Your animal is a feral beast!"

I groaned, trying desperately to will my legs to work before choking, "Use the Pokeball! It's near your feet!"

"That little bastard just wounded my Nidoran! It's as good as dead!" yelled the farmer, raising his shoulder and slowly drawing the pistol from its sheath. My mind succumbed to a mute wave of raw panic. For the first time in my life, I realized that I needed the Pokemon to survive – not because I had a detachment to the evil rat, but because it represented a means of self-defense. It was the only way that I could attain five badges and drag myself out of the horrid occupation known as Pokemon training. It was the only way that I could make money to buy food. It was the only thing that would keep me from getting killed.

"NO!" I yelled, jerking upright.

The man froze before aiming down the sight and flicking the safety into a FIRE position, his hands clutching the grip of the handgun so tightly that his meaty knuckles were more white than pink. The Pikachu froze as well after sensing the danger of having a pistol pointed at its lithe form, although the second rodent continued howling and writhing in obvious pain.

"Gimme one reason I shouldn't put a bullet in this rat, sonny," said the farmer.

I stuttered, tears streaming down my face. "I need it sir! I need it to survive. P-please, the Pokeball is right there!"

The man paused before slowly bending down, the gun still aimed at the rabid mouse. After a few seconds of blindly searching for the Pokeball, he managed to grasp the capsule in one hand, depressing the button and sucking the Pikachu back into its virtual cage with a bright flash of red light.

For the first time in minutes, the tension in the clearing was relieved, and as the farmer made his way towards my numbed body, I realized that I had witnessed my first battle. But despite the feeling returning to my legs, I still felt helpless.

"Jesus Christ, kid. Is that thing tamed or not?" he asked, holding the Pokeball out towards me.

I took the minimized sphere in my shaking hand, managing to stutter softly. "I-I thought so. T-thanks for saving me."

He snorted in disbelief, glancing at the heaving Nidoran, who looked incapable of fighting again. "A burn like that might be fatal on the road, but she'll be fine once I get her bandaged up and disinfected back home. Don't thank me, thank her. One more minute and I'm pretty sure that you would have been roasted alive or bitten to death. Are you a new trainer or something?"

I nodded numbly, feeling another wave of tears slowly streaking down my cheeks. The adrenaline of the short battle was wearing off, giving way to a familiar feeling of dread and despair. The man was right - in the wild, I likely would have been maimed or killed. Not only had the creature disregarded my commands, but it had also sought to tear me limb from limb. If that didn't convince me to give up training, I knew that few things would.

"Well c'mon then son. Let's go and get you sorted out. My house is right over there," said the man, extending his arm for a handshake. "The name is Miles."

I took his hand gingerly, regarding the advice that Professor Elm had given me with an air of caution. _Don't talk to strangers_. But what if that stranger had saved your life? I figured that if Miles had wanted to kill me by now, he would have done so.

"A- uh, my name is Jonathan," I babbled, hoping desperately that the lie was not too obvious. "And I should really get going. You've already done more than enough for me today sir. Could you just point me kindly towards Cherrygrove Town?"

Miles snorted, rubbing his beard with rough, calloused hands. "You're on the right path son, don't worry - Route 29 can get you there without much trouble. But it would probably be best if you rested up at my plantation for a minute. My wife can make us some food if you'd like."

"I'd rather not overstay a welcome," I replied, already eager to step back onto the main road.

The farmer boomed with laughter, pointing at my arm. "You're bleeding sonny. That Pikachu really did a number on you, didn't it?"

I looked at my elbow, noting with a stinging displeasure that blood was seeping out of a shallow gash from the sharp mouse teeth. "Shit."

Miles snorted again. "Hell, it's not like you're going to bleed out. I would be more worried about contracting an infection. Not many Pokemon trainers carry an adequate food supply, let alone bandages. So let's get you cleaned up and fed. I think my wife is making porkchops tonight."

_He's right._ And honestly, a home cooked meal prepared by a farmer's wife was starting to sound delicious compared to the thin, hastily slapped together peanutbutter sandwiches that I had eaten only minutes ago.

"Sounds good, sir."

The farmer nodded and tossed me my knapsack, already walking towards the road. "Let's go then."

"Mildred and I get travelers like you all the time," stated Miles as we walked towards the old, white plantation structure that I had spotted earlier. The property shimmered and waved in the summer heat, seemingly a mirage. Miles continued. "You know, Pokemon trainers and such."

I clutched my elbow, wincing in pain. "Really? How do you know if someone is a Pokemon trainer?"

Miles chuckled as we reached the wooden gate that marked the border to his property, fumbling with the lock. "It's easy, really. Most of them are teenagers wearing rags and a tan that's somethin' fierce. All of those hours of living in the wild and walking on the roads wears down on ya. You can tell which one's are more experienced just by lookin' at em."

"How?"

We entered the gate and began walking the long, dirt path towards the front porch. "That's easy too," said Miles. "The one's that have been traveling for a while walk with a swagger of sorts. Their boots are more wore down and they have scars and wild hair styles. Behind their sunglasses, their eyes are hardened from all the stuff they done seen. Hell, most of 'em look like they've been on the road their whole life. When you think of it, most of 'em have though."

"And you help these people?"

The farmer chuckled. "The helpless ones like you, sure. But not the more experienced travelers."

"Why's that?" We had reached the porch.

Miles gave me a tight lipped smile and shook his had sadly. "I don't know if you've noticed yet sonny, but your kind isn't exactly held with high regard in the four regions. Most people don't trust Pokemon trainers, and for good reason. A lot of them are juvenile delinquents."

"Deliquents?"

The farmer unlocked the screen door and paused before entering the house. "I know that you haven't committed any crimes yet, but I can gurantee that you will. I've seen some government statistics regarding Pokemon trainers - a whole lot of thieves, rapists, and murders they are," he said, sighing.

My stomach flopped wildly. I was not a thief, and I certainly could not stomach raping someone, let alone taking their life. "I'm not that type of person sir, nor will I ever be."

Miles nodded, and gestured for me to enter. "Hopefully not kid."

The old plantation house was quite nice. Long hallways adorned with wood and brown carpet matched nicely with several photographs of what I assumed to be relatives. One picture displayed Miles lifting a flailing Magikarp from his fishing line, standing proudly next to a homely, big boned woman that I assumed was Mildred. More photographs displayed the couple in their younger days, taken while they completed odd tasks on the farm. The living room and kitchen was just as rustic. A small television set from decades previously sat nestled in between two bookshelves and an overstuffed couch.

"Uh, make yourself at home sonny," said Miles, removing his sunhat and hanging it on a rack. "Mildred is probably cleaning out the pantry downstairs. I'm going to go get some medical supplies for ya. You can sit down over there. Hand me your gear and I'll set it over there on the table."

I made my way to the couch as Miles dissapeared around the corner. The overstuffed piece of furniture expelled a large cloud of dust as I collapsed onto it, nearly causing me to choke. It was not until that minute that I examined the contents of the house with a more observant eye. The old curtains and television set were both enconsed in a fine layer of dust, while the celining fan and bookshelves had fine cobwebs. Squinting closer, I noted that none of the books had a date on their spine that surpassed 1983.

Lazily, I allowed my gaze to rest on a picture – one of the big boned woman I had seen earlier. She was smiling, as she had in the others. It was the caption that earned a startled double take. _Rest in peace, Mildred Harper: 1959-1983_.

My stomach flopped. Mildred Harper was dead. There was no Mildred Harper in the pantry.

Something was off. I could feel it.

And suddenly I was in the middle of the room, reaching for my bag to leave. For once, I was going to trust my gut. As my hands the knapsack and the minimized Pokeball, the lumbering thud of Miles' boots slammed down on the hard wood. He burst into the room with an air of intense anger, his ruddy, suntanned face prespring heavily. A look of pure hatred adorned his features.

The handgun from earlier was in his grip, its barrel pointed directly at my head. "Don't make any sudden moves, sonny boy. You got me all riled up."

My stomach flopped again. What was happening?

"Move your hands away from the bag."

I blinked. "Miles - "

"Shut the fuck up and move your hands away from the bag!"

I complied, slowly moving my hands away from the knapsack and the Pokeball. This had to be some sort of sick, twisted misunderstanding. "M-Miles, I think - "

"Shut up, trainer scum. My wife Mildred was killed by some passing trainer back in 1983. We took him in...you know, tried to give him room and board. I woke up in the middle of the night to her screams. By the time I got into the bedroom, that bastard had used his Pokemon to gut her like a fish. He raped her too."

I swallowed nervously. "M-Miles, I'm sorry to hear that, but - "

"You think I would really help scum like you?"

I had no idea what to say. "P-please - "

He danced forward with a surprising level of agility for such a large man, heaving unsteadily.

"Didn't your parents ever tell you not to talk to strangers, kid?" he hissed, the stale aroma of chewing tobacco and the remnant of his last meal seeping forth from his gaping mouth. He seemed delirious almost, enticed by the obvious symptoms of raw terror that played across my face - the farmer's eyes had expanded to the size of saucers, and several beads of sweat had accumulated on his forehead. It was the look of a madman that took pleasure in slaughtering young adults.

I choked, my lips barely uttering aloud, "Please - just let me go. I didn't mean to bother you in any way!"

"Don't lie to me, sonny!" he rasped, jamming the barrel of the handgun into my stomach. I nearly doubled over as the cold steel knocked a majority of the air out of my body. He continued wildly, ignoring the damage. "You walked onto _my_ property...you and that damned creature. And I saved your life."

I stood haphazardly, the cool metal of the pistol still pressed against my ribs. "Please sir. Please. What do you need? I have two hundred dollars. I'll give you all of it. I won't tell anyone if you just let me go!"

"Tell anyone?" he screamed hoarsely, throwing his head back before laughing deliriously. "You're a fucking trainer. The authorities won't give a damn. You're just another statistic to the community. You're lower than a piece of manure on the bottom of their shoes. It would be my word versus yours."

I felt another, fresh wave of tears push forth from my eyes. The man was right. I would die in this house, and no one would come looking for me. A dull voice in my mind questioned how many times this man had done this to unsuspecting Pokemon trainers. Had they begged for mercy before he put a bullet in their head and buried them? Did they scream? Would it hurt?

Miles chuckled as if he could read my mind, prodding me back into reality with the nose of the handgun. "You're not leaving this house ever again, sonny. You will die here. Now turn around nice and slow. Any sudden moves, I'll shoot out your kneecaps."

I whimpered. "Please, just let me go."

I saw stars as the man suddenly brought the grip of the pistol smashing down against my head, knocking me to the floor like a simple umbrella in a strong hurricane. The warm trickle of blood began to run down the side of my cheek.

"Now get up and turn around. The next words out of your mouth earn you a round ticket to being permanently crippled," he spat, glowering down at me.

I felt dizzy. As the room span, I tried desperately to concentrate on Miles's dusty, leather boots. They had seen years of wear and tear - the thick material was cracked with light scrapes from tough farm work and fertile soil. How many other children had seen the same boots before he took their lives? Ten? Twenty? Fifty? There was no telling. No one would care about a serial killer farmer that snatched young teenagers off of the route as they passed by, never to be seen again. Society would write them off as missing - some unfortunate victims of wild Pokemon attacks or kidnapping, if they even bothered to take a census to track such things. My existence was meaningless.

"Up, you little cretin."

I groaned, somehow finding the energy to rise to my knees, another stream of blood trickling down my forehead. Summoning the remainder of my energy reserves, I managed to stagger to my feet and turn around in a slow, rotating manner. I was facing the hallway now.

"Hands to your sides."

I complied.

"Now walk," he ordered, jamming the gun into the back of my spine. "Down to the end of the hallway. And no funny business."

My vision blurred slightly as we walked, my mind empty. My brain was shutting down as a defense mechanism - nature's last attempt to shield me from the horrors of execution at the hands of pure evil. I barely noticed as we slowly made our way down a pair of rickety stairs, into a cool, dank basement. Decades of old farm equipment adorned every nook and cranny, presenting a mess of cobwebs, machinery, and tools stained with oil and grime. The dust was nearly to thick that I struggled to breathe. I could see the sun slowly beginning to set through the narrow, floor panel windows that lined the wall, drawing long shadows throughout the cellar.

There was a rustling behind me and the clink of a metal clasp being undone. "Turn around kid, nice and slow."

Once again, I complied. My stomach flipped as Miles once again came into view. His pants had been peeled down, the blue rawhide and its accompanying belt pooled down and his ankles with no shame. His flannel boxer shorts strained against a large bulge that seemed to be growing in size, a reeking aroma of pungent body odor and sweat emanating with each passing moment.

This man was sick, I realized. It would not be enough to simply be a serial killer - but rather a pedophile rapist as well. "You don't have to do this," I groaned hoarsely.

"Shut the hell up," he said, coolly bringing the barrel of the gun to my forehead. "You're going to suck my cock kid. And if you do it right, I'm going to let you live. Maybe if you're lucky, I'll keep you around as a sex slave or something. You know, something to fuck when I'm bored."

He sneered at the last comment, seemingly amused at the prospect of using a frightened teenager as some sort of sadistic pleasure toy. He heaved with anticipation, his voice terse. "You are gonna pull down my shorts here nice and slow. And then you're going to lick me up and down real nice without biting. And then you're gonna swallow me, or so help me Mew, I'll cripple you."

I didn't move.

"Do it kid," he commanded.

This was rape - soon to be murder. And as my hands tugged slowly at the waistband of his boxers, I hoped only that pleasuring the man would bring about a quick and painless death. He groaned as his pulsating rod sprang into the air, leaping at me with anticipation. I nearly gagged.

"Suck it, sonny."

No movement.

"Three seconds, or your kneecap is going to be a bloody mess."

Still no movement, aside from the veiny throb of Miles and the heave of his angry, barrel chest.

"Your choice," he muttered angrily, swinging the gun from my head to my leg. He looked away and raised his hand, as though to avoid the inevitable spray of blood and gore that would spout from the inevitable wound.

And suddenly, for the second time in twenty-four hours, I was saved by circumstance.

The first circumstance was a resounding clicking noise as the firing pin slammed home against the hammer function within the gun, filling the basement with the loud clack of a ringing echo. The gun had jammed. The second circumstance came in the form of the loudest roar I had ever heard - a sharp, short clap punctuated by the spray of brain and skull as Miles's head sagged and then expanded against an unseen amount of pressure. His body lurched forward and then collapsed in a gory, expanding puddle of dark liquid.

I couldn't hear my own scream over the sharp ringing in my ears. The smell of burnt gunpowder and human excrement released from a sudden, violent death reached my nose. An ebony colored man bounded down the stairway, a scoped rifle held at the ready. He quickly sidestepped the black puddle of blood that stained the dusty floor, and grabbed me by the collar, mouthing at me. _"Are you OK?"_

I stood frozen - numb. My hearing was starting to come back now, albeit only working at a fraction of its full capability. I felt another wave of tears coming on. I had just witnessed a murder with my own two eyes. Human life could be extinguished with the simple pull of a trigger, it seemed. I looked at my savior. A ragged afro sat perched upon an angular face and knowledgeable, squinting eyes, while an olive green combat vest obviously worn down from years of travel and battling barely complemented an orange shirt and ragged jeans.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing?" he yelled, slinging the rifle over his shoulder. "Look, I ain't tryna go back to prison man. Get your supplies, and let's get out of here. Go upstairs and get your stuff. I'm going to look for lighter fluid or kerosene or tractor gasoline or something."

I simply stood fixed in place. Only a minute ago, I faced death. The sudden appearance of a random black man now made me an accomplice to cold-blooded murder. I was certain that the world had no morals.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he boomed, stopping in front of me and bringing me back into reality. His frenzy had produced a gasoline can and a kerosene coffer, both of which were situated in his left hand. In the right hand was a small, silver device, stained with scratches and time. A lighter. "We gotta move man. I'm burning this place to the ground. Move, NOW!"

I finally willed my feet to work and started up the stairs, nearly tripping as I arrived at the top of the flight. And suddenly I was back in the main living room. I noticed with full interest that the room looked like it had been ransacked. Every book had been torn off of the shelf, every drawer had been opened, and every picture frame had been smashed in. I ignored the mess as I searched for the Pokeball that held Pikachu, which I found located exactly where it had been left, right next to my knapsack.

_The door. You need to leave, now. Get as far away as possible._ The voice in my head, for once, was correct. I had witnessed a murder, and had nearly been the victim of one. I realized too late that taking my chances on the road would have likely produced better results than taking up room and board with a stranger. But the black man bounded up the stairs sooner, his feet stomping wildly against the ancient wood of the basement stairs. He looked a bit more panicked than before.

"I lit the fire downstairs. I saw a few ammo boxes for that handgun. The rifle was his. I found it in his bedroom. There was some ammo for that too down there. I left the guns with the body."

I was once again rooted to the spot, not knowing what to say.

"Let's get out of here," said the man. Already, I could see the smoldering, orange glow of a fire spreading down the hallway. "We've got about a minute before those rounds start cooking off and we end up dead anyway."

I found myself once again dragged by the collar, and suddenly we were outside, our shoes pounding hard against the packed, plantation dirt. Fresh air had never tasted so good - the night air was clear and sweet, like a geyser straight from the gods itself. The sun had long since collapsed beneath the horizon, letting darkness reach out underneath the guise of soft moonlight. And as I looked up, there were thousands of stars winking playfully at me, seemingly oblivious to my near death experience. I had never seen so many in my life. I had never been so grateful.

The was a resounding gunshot as the first round of nine millimeter ammunition sounded off in the basement, followed by the resounding _pop pop pop_ of higher caliber assault rounds. We kept running through the darkness, stopping in sync when we reached the edge of the property that was marked with a the wooden gate. We looked back solemnly. The house was now totally engulfed in flames, it's wooden foundation providing kindling for a fire so bright and hot that even hundreds of feet away, we could feel it's warmth. The snap, crackle, and rustling of collapsing of wood was somewhat peaceful.

"The Rangers will be here tomorrow morning, if one of their patrolmen flies overhead," said the man, shoving his hands deep into the combat vest. I noticed a string of six Pokeballs strung to a utility belt around his waist. A trainer, like me.

I needed to speak, I realized. To say something. To become human again. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah man," he replied, shifting towards me in the moonlight. "Good shit back there. For a new trainer at least."

I nearly began to cry again, but managed to choke out a question. "How'd you know?"

The man chuckled heartily, as if to pity me. "I break into some old plantation house to rob it and it's empty, right? But then I see a bit of blood on the floor and dripping trail to the basement. So I take my time and ransack the house for any valuables. I even find a rifle in one room. And I'm thinking about leaving, but I hear yelling downstairs, so I decide to investigate. Needless to say, I find some thirteen year old kid about to be forced to swallow some guy's kids. Blew his sick brains out. Sound like a familiar story?"

I nodded numbly. I had been saved by a criminal. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "No problem kid. And to answer your question...it's obvious that you're a new trainer. You walked into a stranger's house, didn't you? That was mistake number one. Most people hate trainers. You don't have that battling edge to you yet. Trust me, after the first six months, you'll be ready to scrap with anyone at the blink of an eye, no matter how big they are. It's like soldiers who live in a combat zone, ya know? They're always on alert. That's why trainers end up with PTSD and stuff."

I didn't say anything.

The man ignored the silence before extending a hand. "The name's Brock, by the way. Brock Shale."

I took it tentatively, noting the callous, yet dexterous handshake. "The name is Ash. Ash Ketchum," I stated. "And I'm fifteen, not thirteen."

"Same age to me...still immature, at least," he chuckled, exposing a set of white teeth. "You headed towards New Bark?"

I shook my head, simply happy to have my voice back. I had survived. "Just came from there. I'm headed for Cherrygove Town."

"Good shit, man. Mind if I travel with you until we hit Weed?"

I raised my eyebrow. "What's that?"

I cringed after speaking. My head still hurt like hell. I prayed it wouldn't get infected.

"It's a village in between here and Cherrygrove Town. It won't show up on your Pokedex map, but it's there."

I nodded hesitantly. "I don't trust strangers."

"Good," said Brock. "You shouldn't. Especially when they try to rape and kill you. Neither of which I've done."

He had a point. He had saved my life. Yet some small voice in my head also noted that the last stranger to save my life had ended up attempting to kill me.

"Or, I can leave you where you stand kid. Alone here in the dark. Imagine if the Rangers found out about the house tonight. You'd be sentenced to death by next week. Another example of trainers gone wild with power. Think of the headline. _New trainer takes advantage of welcoming farmer and proceeds to slay him in the basement_. The truth would never get out."

I grimaced. "You committed murder in the first degree."

"And who cares?" asked Brock. "If we leave now, no one will ever know what happened."

I shivered, suppressing a sob of grief. "You blew his head off like he was an animal. So casually. That was a grown man. A human. I know he was bad, but..."

"You're right," snapped Brock. "I should have let him rape you."

"I didn't say that - "

Brock interrupted me. "We had to get rid of him. I'm callous about it because I've killed before, man. I'm a trainer just like you - five years down, in fact. Been in jail before too, for some trainer related stuff. You get hard."

I pursed my lips sourly. "I'm not a murder."

Brock nodded darkly, opening the gate. "I never said you were. Let's get to walking. I've got a tent in my sack. We'll walk a bit, and then we can camp. I'll let you ask me anything. I know you don't trust me."

I followed behind the older boy reluctantly, mutely curious. I did have a million questions. The night air soothed the wounds on my scalp and elbow.

Surprisingly, it felt good to be on the road again.

* * *

**AN: Thank you for you reviews and follows in regards to this story. The more I write this, the more I wonder if it will be too dark. But you have to understand that a world with Pokémon would be dark. I write this story to appeal largely to the classic Pokémon fans as well - people who are likely in their mid-twenties by now. So I just feel as though this stuff should be dark. All support is greatly appreciated, and every review is considered. I'm sorry if this seemed a bit rushed and inconsequential, but I kid you not the material will get better. I'm just getting used to writing again. Also, just a heads up...every chapter beyond this point will be 6k+. And I know it seems a bit OP for Brock to just suddenly come save him, but c'mon, would you really want a story where Ash became a sex slave for the rest of his life? Forget that lol. And I made Brock black. As a black guy myself, I was always disappointed in the lack of blacks in the original series lol.**


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